


the things we say

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>excited for tonight? ;), Jake sends, when the Islanders have just landed in Sunrise. David doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to that at all. He sends nothing, in the end. Jake will see him on the ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the things we say

David may have expected the time in New York to drag until training camp, but it doesn’t. He finds a trainer that works for him, that pushes him as hard as he wants to be pushed, as hard as he’d push himself, and it’s long hours at the gym, putting on the weight that will melt off his body once the season starts, at the rink, at the pool, enough to mix it up, enough to leave him exhausted every night in an apartment that is only nominally more his than the hotel in Toronto was. He spends more time in it at least, goes home every night and stays there, and doesn’t let himself think of anything else, remember that it was anything but this.

Training camp’s less of an adjustment than it was last season, David already comfortable with Kurmazov, other potential linemates, knows the goalies’ strengths and weaknesses, though it’s mostly weaknesses, knows the names of some of the guys’ wives, kids, dogs, whatever they talk incessantly about. There are some new guys too, call-ups and rookies, and they hang around the edges, awkward. David would pull them in, but he doesn’t really know how to. Kurmazov does, in his gruff, typical way, and so David knows their names, where they’re from, when they inevitably get cut and sent right back to where they came from. He’ll probably forget, soon enough. 

Once training camp’s over, the team doesn’t look so different than last year. Some guys were traded away, or traded here, some kids managed to crack the ranks, but David knows most of these guys, spent a year on the road with them. He wishes it made a difference.

Jake makes captain when the Panthers captain gets pretty seriously injured in the preseason, decides he’s just going to retire instead of fight for rehab, wants to be honest with the fans, who who he says deserve better than him on IR all year then promptly retiring, at least according to the NHL press release. Jake’s young for a captain, but not the only young one, and not the youngest to be made captain, and the media’s pretty much in agreement about him being the shot in the arm the Panthers need. 

A year ago David would have thought that was the worst fucking idea in the world, someone with no drive being made captain. Now he knows Jake has the drive, and he just thinks it’s a terrible idea. A twenty year old captain with a penchant for stupid penalties and streaky play, but the media loves it. Of course they do. Everything Jake does they love. David doesn’t know what he does to secure their affection, can’t even begin to guess. 

Even so, when Jake sends him a text that just consists of a string of idiotic smileys, :):):):) and so on until it fills David’s screen, David sends back _Congratulations._ , and doesn’t let it burn in him. Tries not to, at least.

The season starts in much the same way the last season is, a handful of wins, a handful of losses, Kurmazov playing strong and David trying to be a part of that, hand him the passes he needs, take the passes he gives, counter the poor defence and worse goaltending to make something of themselves. It works sometimes, doesn’t work others, and David tries not to let it frustrate him, but no matter how well he plays, no matter how well his line plays, they lose as much as they win.

It’s a couple weeks in, just long enough to settle, to let the frustration settle, when Jake texts him. Jake texts him all the time, has since David left Toronto, sometimes inane bullshit David sees no point in responding to, sometimes decently intelligent hockey talk David finds interesting, but this sets a stone in his belly.

 _excited for tonight? ;)_ , Jake sends, when the Islanders have just landed in Sunrise. David doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to that at all. He sends nothing, in the end. Jake will see him on the ice. 

* 

It’s ugly. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s an ugly game against a team that doesn’t give a shit about fighting fair if that means they can win, and David says that fully aware of who he’s playing for. It starts ugly, and it stays ugly, and nothing about it comes out right in the end. 

The aggression starts early, fourth line scuffles that don’t make it to full fledged fights, that notch the tension up on the benches, have the refs looking wary, stern-faced, one of them leaning over the bench to talk to Kurmazov, who’s sitting beside David, telling him to rein in his team or he’s calling it the next time they so much as tap a Panther.

He’s as good as his word, though Barker does a little more than tap, Petrovic vehemently gesturing at the refs with blood on his fingers after a stray stick to the face. Barker sits the four minutes, but they’re only shorthanded for the first three, because the Panthers aren’t interested in playing nice either. Lourdes is arguing as he’s gestured towards the box, but as far as hooks go, catching David around the middle with the blade of his stick the second he’s managed to skim toward a shorthanded breakaway is pretty blatant. David watches, jaw set, and looks away when Lourdes meets his eyes from the box.

*

The locker room’s tense after the first, all clench jaw grit teeth silence. The Panthers get under David’s skin in a way they shouldn’t, he knows that, but he isn’t the only one. When you’re trying not to be dead last, losing to a shitty team leaves a bad taste in your mouth. 

The refs’ warnings basically go unheard, and instead of taking the first offenders out, they sit back on their hands and take no one, let it play out, more hits than shots on net, David’s ribs stinging from a stray elbow, Barker furious with the refs, blood down his chin. The ref tells him to wipe it off or they’ll send him to the locker room. David doesn’t hear what Barker says in response, too far down the bench, but it ends with a game misconduct, the team down a man, and Kurmazov loses his temper so spectacularly he almost follows Barker down the tunnel.

David sits stiff, uncomfortable beside Kurmazov, who is practically smouldering, a rare enough occurrence that David doesn’t know what to do with it, Kurmazov usually even-keeled, calming the team by example, but singing with tension now, the whole bench wound as tight as him. When the Panthers fourth line ices the puck, David’s just relieved not to be sitting shoulder to shoulder with Kurmazov, feeling the tension sink under his own skin, settle heavy in him.

When David’s line jumps on with fresh legs, the fourth line’s gasping like fish on land, so gassed it looks like it takes all their energy to skate the few feet to the circle. Their coach is arguing, but he doesn’t call a timeout, so David matches up against Brzezinski, who looks like he’s holding up his considerable weight with his stick alone.

Doesn’t stop him from mouthing off the second David skates into place beside him, panting out some comment about David’s mouth, the typical ‘cocksucker’ bullshit that makes David remember that the entire US Junior team called him pretty boy. 

David looks up, gives Brzezinski a completely unimpressed look. It’s hard to take any chirp seriously when it’s gasped out between pants for air, and David isn’t going to waste any energy on a fourth-line moron who’s trying to buy his line more time by riling him up. Doesn’t want to give the Panthers any more satisfaction.

“Too good for this shit, huh, Chapman,” Brzezinski says, then smirks. “That stick in your ass must hurt.”

David rolls his eyes, waits for the puck to drop, but the ref’s consulting with Kurmazov about some shit, giving the Panthers more time than they deserve.

“You ever get sick of it, I can pull it out and shove something else in there for you. Bet you’d like that. Bet you’d fucking love it, pretty boy.”

“Cut the shit, Brzezinski,” Lourdes calls, sharp, from the end of the Panthers bench. “You know what the league policy on homophobic comments is.”

Brzezinski doesn’t look away from David. “I’m just asking him what he’s doing later, Captain,” he says, grinning at David. His teeth are very white. “What’ya say, Chapman? Wanna come back to mine?”

David’s flushes red, humiliated and completely unable to think of a comeback. He hears stuff like that all the time; it’s not the comment, it’s Lourdes bringing attention to it, half the Panthers bench turning to find out what Lourdes is telling Brzezinski off about, Kurmazov looking over from the circle because he’s got a radar for that shit. It distracts Kurmazov, too, he drops his stick too early, gets thrown out of the circle, David subbing in, giving the Panthers even more time to suck in air.

David takes the face-off, loses it, and the only consolation is that when the puck gets passed back, Brzezinski shoots the puck like he’s aiming for the fucking net, ices the damn thing all over again, and this time the second line goes out to meet them. Kurmazov nudges David as they’re sitting down, back to the responsible captain. David can’t look at him. 

*

The Panthers drop the hits in the third, and the Islanders get shelled, can’t manage to shift gears from the knockdown dragout game, their defence thread thin, their goaltending woeful. Fuller lets four goals in on twelve shots, and the Isles can’t get any of their own back, not a thing, so the score beams out 4-0, and the Islanders leave the ice with the same gritted teeth, clenched jaw feeling, with the added sting of bile. 

David can’t meet anyone’s eyes, feels like everyone’s looking at him, even though they’re not, everyone locked inside their own misery, a few pulling themselves out of it long enough to wander over to Barker, who hasn’t moved from where he was sitting during the second other than to change to street clothes, and whose chin’s darkened with hasty stitches.

Kurmazov elbows him lightly as David’s unlacing his skates, but otherwise he doesn’t do anything, which David’s grateful for, in an exhausted, beatdown way. He stays under the spray of the shower while it batters over his various aches, doesn’t go for a massage because he’s sure that there are guys who need it more tonight, doesn’t want to linger, anyway, would rather go to sleep aching than stick around any longer, deal with any of the looks he isn’t getting, the ones he feels anyway. 

The bus is far from full, going to idle awhile, but David prefers the sticky Florida heat to the manufactured cold, even if his hair, still wet, sticks to his temples, drying fast. Keeps his suit jacket on, even though he’s sweating through his shirt. He leans against the hot metal of the coach, exhales slow, and avoids looking at the guy approaching from the arena until the last second, so he doesn’t know until the last ten feet, the unmistakable stride, that it isn’t team walking over.

He straightens up, waits until Jake is five feet away before he opens his mouth. “What do you want?” he asks, and he doesn’t know why Jake looks injured by that, and he doesn’t care. He can still feel the jab of stick around his belly, the humiliation of the Panthers bench looking over to see who was getting called a faggot, and he doesn’t care at all about Jake fucking Lourdes’ sensitivity.

Jake stops just out of personal space, too close still, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Sorry about Brzezinski,” he says, after a moment.

David bites down on the inside of his cheek. “I’ve heard all that shit before,” he says.

“I’m sorry about that too,” Jake says, sounding woeful, and David feels anger, white hot, wash over him, the worst its been all day.

“Oh fuck you,” David snaps, and takes no satisfaction from the way Jake looks taken-aback. “So fucking what if he said that shit, the only reason anyone knows he said it is because you ran your mouth.”

“So what, I should have just let him say that shit?” Jake asks. 

“Yes,” David yells. “What, he can’t say that shit but you can hook me, and that’s all fine? The only person who can pull shit is you?”

Jake scoffs. “Like a hockey play is the same thing as spouting homophobic bullshit.”

“No,” David says. “Only one hurts. I don’t give a shit what anyone says.”

“Bullshit,” Jake says. “You want to pretend I wasn’t in the same room as you when the Lapointe news broke?”

“Oh fuck off,” David says, “don’t act like you know me.”

Jake snorts, and it’s probably the meanest he’s ever sounded. “I don’t know you?” he asks. “Seriously, David?”

David bites down on his lip, hard. “Go away,” he says, finally, sounds petulant to his own ears. Hates it. “You think you’re any better than Brzezinski? You’re just here for the same thing. Not the first time a Panther’s called me pretty boy.”

Jake’s jaw works. “Fuck you, Chapman,” he says, finally, hoarse, but he doesn’t move.

“You’re dumb as a fucking brick,” David shouts, watches him flinch. “We buddies, Lourdes? You want to act like buddies, you go jerk off Benson, because we’re not fucking friends. We’re not anything.”

Jake won’t look at him, when David finally looks at him head-on instead of out the corner of his eye. David gets his profile more than anything, his jaw tight, his hair curling in front of his eye, the exact way David always wants to tuck behind his ear. He should cut his fucking hair.

“Everyone’s right about you,” Jake says, so quiet the words barely penetrate, and then walks away, back towards the arena, before David can even think to ask who everyone is, and what they’re saying. 

Whatever it is, he knows it’s nothing good. 

When Jake’s made his distance, gone far enough that David can pull away from the bus, he looks over at Benson and co., a few feet away, Benson’s mouth turned up at the corner. Wonders how much they heard. Wonders if Jake has jerked Benson off before. Probably has. Benson probably returned the favour, girlfriend and all. David hears things. 

He lowers his eyes so he doesn’t see Benson’s sneer, goes into the bus, where the air-conditioning blows dry, where there are a few guys who won’t look at him, and David doesn’t know if they heard him, if they were there all along or they walked by while David tore into Jake. Tries not to care.

He sleeps shitty, his phone silent, though he half-expects Jake to text him to come over, always awful at taking a message. He got it this time, and maybe David should be glad. In the morning, he’s just tired.

Kurmazov takes him aside after team breakfast, before the trip to Tampa, looking as serious as usual. 

“You know I have a brother,” Kurmazov says. 

“Yeah,” David says slowly. Kurmazov the lesser, an acceptable enough third-liner on the Canucks, but nothing like his brother.

“You think we play Canucks, we lose, I refuse to see him?” Kurmazov asks. “We always lose against Canucks.”

“Okay?” David says.

“I hear about last night,” Kurmazov says, and David swallows, can’t look at anything except the swirl of colour on the hotel carpet. 

“Hockey is not everything,” Kurmazov says. “Family, friends are important. You need to learn that before hockey is all that you have left.”

David looks up “Excuse me?” he asks, finally.

“You are very good,” Kurmazov says. “You are better than I was at your age. But where is your family, David? Where are your friends?”

David’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “That’s none of your business,” he gets out.

“No?” Kurmazov says. “I am captain, and if you are going to have fights in front of the team, you make it my business.”

“I’ll keep it away from the rink,” David says, through gritted teeth. “Is that all?”

“That was not what I was--” Kurmazov starts, then sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Go pack.”

David already did. It’s not worth mentioning, not if he can take the chance to walk away. 

*

They drop the game in Tampa, go home with no more points than they left with. David’s phone is silent. His apartment echoes. He doesn’t notice.

The Islanders host the Panthers two weeks later, and its as uneventful game as they come, forgettable, the fans sedate, practically yawning down from their seats. David gets a point on a Kurmazov goal, and Jake gets none because the Panthers get none, a 1-0 win that doesn’t excite anyone.

Jake doesn’t show up after the game, all ‘aw shucks’ grin, and it isn’t that David was expecting him or anything, not like he’s disappointed. David made himself clear, and Lourdes listened for once, and that’s good. 

That’s exactly what he wanted.


End file.
